Water for Elephants
by Shirayuki Kairi
Summary: In the Depression, a boy's world is shattered and he is slowly ensnared in a web of deceit,horror and most of all,love. Based on Sara Gruen's book of the same title. Mainly USUK, FRUK.
1. Chapter 1

So, this is my second story. This is not original in any sense-this is a Water of Elephants AU, featuring Alfred/America as Jacob.

I, of course, do not own Hetalia or WoE. The only things in this fic that belongs to me are the OC's and the slight twist of certain facts in that story.

Please do read and review! Constructive criticism is always welcome.

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><p>It was raining heavily that night.<p>

I squinted, trying to make out just what the shape was. The rain obscured most of my vision, preventing me from seeing clearly through my window. Whatever it was, it was bound to block traffic later, what with standing in the middle of the road. I sighed, putting on some boots and grabbing my red umbrella on the way out of my office, thankful that for once, Feliciano wasn't absent-minded enough to forget returning my umbrella for once-I had ended up having to run all the way home in the pouring rain more often than not thanks to the ditzy owner of the Vargas Circus.

Once I had stepped out of the warm confines of my office, I had to maintain a strong grip onto my umbrella; otherwise the wind would grab it like a thief and send me chasing after it like a madman. It sprayed rain all over my face anyway.

_All the more reason to get this done and over quickly, dammit._

I approached the silhouette of the object I've been peeking out of my window for quite a while now, and I frowned when I saw that it was a man.

_What the hell is he doing, standing in the middle of a downpour?_

And he was _old._ Practically ancient.I could see that clearly now. His wispy hair was plastered to his face, apart from a stubborn strand that seemed to defy gravity. He had a kind face, aged by wrinkles and laugh lines etched all over his face. I imagine he had been a handsome lad in his youth. He had bright blue eyes behind his glasses, and his eyes were still bright, intelligent and _sharp_ for someone of his age. He seemed to be in his own world though, peering over his glasses as if he's seeing something other than the lamp post and the dark of the night that envelopes everything. I doubted he even heard me approach him.

I cleared my throat, trying to garner his attention and held out my umbrella to him. The old man needed it more than I did, judging by his thoroughly soaked bomber jacket. "Excuse me, sir?"

He started, turning slowly to face me. He seemed slightly surprised when he found out he had an umbrella thrust above him. _What, didn't you feel the rain NOT hitting you any longer?_

"You need to get out of the rain, sir. It wouldn't do for you to catch a cold."

He smiles, his grin lopsided. "I was hoping to watch the show, but it seems I've missed it. Ah, well..." he lets out a boisterous laugh. "It's a pity, though. After I've managed to escape them with my heroic abilities, I've got nothing to show for it."

_...Heroic abilities?_

I took his arm, urging him to move together with me towards my office. The rain is really pouring now, so the umbrella was wholly useless by now, but I tried to keep it aloft above his head. It wouldn't do to have the old geezer faint in the circus' premises, now would it?

As we reached my office, I passed him one of the towels and Raden's old jacket and slacks (it was too big for me, anyway) that I had kept in my cupboard. On days like these I had to stay in the office, due to the fact that I don't even have a car, and I'm completely drenched from head to toe, plus whatever energy I had before in me, together with my resolve to just run home simply abandoned me. I could just sleep in the office, but then this old guy could hardly be subjected to the same treatment. His back would probably kill him next morning, if the cold hadn't got to him first.

He stares at the old, yellowing laminated newspaper clippings under the slab of see-through glass of my table, a nostalgic, almost wistful look passed over his face. I didn't have to look at it to know what it was, Romano had gave it to me the first day I came here, and lectured for almost two hours about how the freak accident in that piece of paper-and how I was never to allow that to happen to the Vargas Circus, he ranted, _You're the goddamned manager, you fucking idiot, it's your fucking job to keep those bastards toeing the line-_and I notice his hands are shaking.

"Here," I slid the glass of brandy into his hand. "Something to warm you up, sir."

"I-Thanks. Mighty kind of you."

"Sure," I waved my hand dismissively. I notice that there's a rubber band beside his wristwatch-and the swirling letters there were so faint a green I had to narrow my eyes to get a better view of the words-Fairside Nursing Home?

"You're...interested in circuses, sir? You've been staring at that for a while now."

He laughs, his blue eyes twinkling merrily. "I was on two shows." Each syllable rolls of his tongue easily, as if he's proud of it. Heck, he's preening, obviously sure he has my full attention. "Bonnefoy's Most Spectacular Show on Earth was my first, and then on to Ringling."

He did succeed, though. I stared at him, almost incredulous. "You were with Bonnefoy's?"

"Yeah." He pauses. "Never liked him though. This piece of news," he points to the clipping with a slightly shaky hand, "is part of my memories. I was there, that summer of 1931." His smile turns rueful. "Hell, I was in the thick of it. In the menagerie itself. I was the show's vet."

Both of us looked at the title of the news, _Stampede of the Bonnefoy's Circus kills 38 spectators. _I shake my head, trying to absorb this in. This man is practically legend, a living survivor to tell the tale of what exactly happened in that disaster. Up till now, no one knows exactly what caused the stampede to occur.

"After the Hartford fire and the Hagenback-Wallace wreck, that's most probably the most famous circus disasters of all time." I mused aloud. "And you say you were there, sir?"

"Heck yeah. It really was something. I remember it like yesterday. I remember it _better _than yesterday."

The corners of my mouth twitches slightly upward, in response to his energetic grin that lit up his features like those small light bulbs adorning a Christmas tree. "All right." I stuck my hand out. "Ilya Kirkland."

The man practically did a double-take, staring at me with serious scrutiny and incredulousness so suddenly that I immediately felt self-conscious. "Is there something wrong?"

"Ah...No. No. Of course not!" He laughs again, but this time the quality of his laugh sounded albeit forced, somehow. "Alfred F. Jones." Despite the bony frame of his frail looking hand, he pumped my extended hand so vigorously with some kind of hidden strength that for a moment it felt like my arm was ready to drop from its socket.

"Okay then. Mr. Jones-"

"Call me Alfred."He chirps enthusiastically.

I looked into his eyes, and his earnestness startled me for a moment. "Of course. Mr. Alfred, then. I would let you watch the show now, if I could, but there's nothing to be seen now. I apologise. However, it would be a privilege if you would tell me what happened that day." I fidgeted with my hands, twisting my fingers around and looping them over and over again. "I mean, you're practically living history. N-not that you're that old, I mean-I'd really like to hear what happened there firsthand. I can send you home afterwards."

Mr. Jones-no, it's Alfred, now-smiles, and said, "I'd be delighted."

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><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>

**Anyone noticed the name of the circus that Jacob went at the beginning of the movie was named _Circus Vargas?_**

**I squeeed when I saw that, hence Feliciano and Romano became the joint owners of this circus.**

**Ilya Kirkland is an OC of mine. He's the personification of Malaysia, as is Raden, who is representing Indonesia.**

**Thanks for reading! :D **


	2. Chapter 2

I don't talk much about those days. Never did. I honestly never knew _why-_I've worked in two circuses for the span of seven years. If that isn't an awesome conversation material, then nothing is.

All right, I'll be honest. I do know why: I never trusted myself. I'm afraid I'd let it slip-I mean, I _know _how important it was to keep her a secret, and keep it I did-for the rest of her life, and even beyond.

For seventy years, I've never told anyone-not a soul.

_Would you listen to my story?_

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><p>I sipped the brandy, willing my hands to stop shaking for a moment. It's a constant problem these days. Plus, maybe standing in the rain wasn't exactly one of my greatest ideas-not if you're ninety. Or was that ninety-three? I've lost count.<p>

The days seem to somehow blur into one another. Living alone causes that, it seems. First, it was words forgotten-they're on the tip of my tongue, seemingly ready to dislodge from my mouth and forming articulate thoughts and words, but at the very moment I try to say anything, the words shrivel up and die in my throat. Sometimes I forget what day it is. And then I kinda forgot the years.

Actually, it's not so much that I've forgotten. It's more like I stopped keeping track, because the days in a boring, stiff place is so not what a home feels like-the caretakers breathe down your throat and the food is _disgusting-_all mushy stuff like porridges that they claim would prolong my life_-_and worst of all...

_He's not here._

At least when he cooked up something I could barely stomach, he did it so enthusiastically and lovingly I couldn't bear not eating them.

For all those times I've called him an old man, and watched him splutter incoherently, cheeks bright red and those wonderful, beautiful green eyes that _glowed _with slight annoyance but overflowing in affection and love, it never occurred to me that I would be the one whose ability to remember slowly dwindling along with my age.

Now, what was his name? I peered over my glasses to get a better look of my host. He's young, around the end of his twenties, if I had to take a guess. He had wavy dark brown hair that is in proper length, although his fringe sort of clung to his face; it was still damp from the rain. Absentmindedly, he swept the too long bangs from his face and tucked it behind his right ear, causing a few strands to swing back towards his face. I could see his face better now, and I notice that he's looking somewhat expectantly at me. His eyes were a pretty shade of grey, almost silver under the fluorescent lighting.

But what startled me were those _eyebrows_.

"You-you're a Kirkland, right?"

One of those eyebrows hiked up before he burst into laughter. "I didn't think you'd remember the name through these." A finger prodded at his eyebrow, his eyes twinkling with playful mirth. "But yes, it is kind of hereditary. Proof that I'm a Kirkland."

"Ah." I racked my brains hard, "Ilya Kirkland, right?" I lauded myself for being able to remember this person's name. _Good lad, _as he would say.

I take a deep breath, and let the words flow from my mouth. He sat, entranced, as jumbled words string themselves into coherent sentences, and slowly, painstakingly painted a world Ilya could see and imagine through my story. As for me, I find out that this senile mind still had the ability to relive my memories, and I breathe in the familiar taste of memories slowly rejuvenating and permeating all of my senses.

Would _you_ listen to my story?

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><p>She was sitting next to me, or rather; I was sitting next to the pretty Lili Zwingli, since she came earlier than me and had saved a seat for me beside her, since I had the tendency to barge into the lecture hall late more often than not. It sure irked the hell out of Professor Germania, but since I was one of the top students in his class, he could not complain. Our thighs brushed accidentally, and a faint pink dusted her cheeks as she focused back to her notes. I quite like when she's blushing, to tell you the truth. It accentuates her pale features, and her pale green (teal? I'm not that good at describing, but it's green and big) eyes and short flaxen hair nicely accompany her pretty features, making her look like a pretty porcelain doll. There's a new purple ribbon on both sides of her head.<p>

I twirled my pencil between my fingers, making it spin in circular loops. Sure, Lili Zwingli could be the cutest girl on earth (she is the cutest girl in my class, anyway) but it's a proven fact that she'll never get married, not while her brother is hovering over her like a hawk, anyway. Vash Zwingli's glare could give Jack the Ripper a run for his money, and rumors say he carries a gun wherever he goes, trying to protect his innocent little sister from rabid men trying to steal her virginity.

I am, as far as I can tell, the oldest male virgin on earth. No one my age would admit otherwise willingly-even Toris, my quiet roommate stuttered out a victory against me-but then he'd been going steady with the Polish girl in our class for so long now, I'd be surprised if he didn't.

As much as I hoped to leave my virginity in Cornell, I simply couldn't bring myself to do it. Unlike Lili, I didn't even need protecting from a trigger-happy brother-and in ten days, I, and my faithful shadow, Virginity, would leave Ithaca completely intact and join my father's veterinary practice in Norwich.

"Right," Professor Germania's voice effectively cut through my train of thoughts, "As all of you can see, the enlarged lymph nodes is proof that-"

A sharp rap came from the door of the lecture hall, and without even waiting for an answer; Dean Rome promptly burst into the hall and walked straight towards the annoyed lecturer. He immediately tugged his companion's sleeve, a serious look uncharacteristically painted on his face. The two men confer, eliciting whispers and restlessness from the students, who immediately fidgeted around once they realize what was going on. Professor Germania raised his head, away from the Dean's urgent whispering, long pale hair shifting together with his head as he scanned over the rows and rows of heads of his students, before alighting upon me.

"Alfred Jones."

The lecture hall instantly falls silent, the incessant buzzing of the students dying down as heads turned to stare at me. My pencil drops to the floor, and rolls towards Lili's left foot. I cleared my throat and abruptly stood up.

"Yes, sir?"

"Can we have a word, please?" It was Dean Rome's voice. The students resumed fidgeting, craning their necks to have a better look at the scenario playing out.

Lili picks up the pencil and hands it to me, her teal eyes bright with concern. I muttered a soft "Thanks," before I make my way towards Professor Germania and Dean Rome, bumping knees and accidentally elbowing Toris on my way there. The Dean immediately takes my arm and ushers me out of the lecture hall. I follow him, my stomach twisting in fear.

I've done something wrong, that much is certain.

My mind whirls in random circles, trying its best to sort through my memories, dissecting every move I made. Surely, I've done nothing wrong? Sure, I often came late to class, and it sure bugged Professor Germania; but surely he couldn't be that _mean_-surely the university wasn't about to kick me out because of _that! _Fuck. Dad would murder me if I get expelled now-There's no question about that. And Mum would be so disappointed. She'd probably cry-oh wait, maybe she'd like to discuss with Dad what the best way to execute me was.

Plus, it'll be totally uncool and unheroic if I got tossed out _now-_I'm finishing in barely a week! Maybe I could plead Dean Rome to just give me some leniency? I mean, come on-I'm not a bad student. Okay, so maybe I drank a little, but it's not like I had anything to do with-

I was so lost in my thoughts; I didn't notice that we've stopped walking until the hand that had grasped my arm had moved to clap on my shoulder. The serious look that the Dean had before had been replaced with an air of somberness. He takes a deep breath, looks me directly in the eye and exhales heavily.

"Son, there's been an accident."

I freeze instantly, the cogs of my brain still whirring too fast for me to comprehend what was being said. "Uh-I'm sorry, what?"

"There's been a car accident," he repeats, slow and hesitant. "Your parents were involved."

My mind was oddly clear now. I stare into his troubled eyes, willing him to continue.

"I'm sorry." A pregnant pause followed, before he moved in for the kill. "It was instant. There was nothing anyone could do."

The weight of his words slowly began to sink in and I ceased to hear anything. Dean Rome's voice faded to a distant hum and suddenly I notice that the room was titling dangerously, almost like a small boat capsizing; before everything else faded into darkness.

"...Fred? Alfred?"

I blink rapidly, trying to quell the wave of nausea that came in full force.

"What?"

"You okay, son?"

_How the hell am I supposed to be _okay?

Dean Rome studies me with his beady brown eyes before clearing his throat, trying to catch my attention.

"You'll have to go back today, I'm afraid. The police needs someone to make a positive identification of the victims. I'll drive you to the station."

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><p><strong>Author's comments: Many thanks to those who reviewed and subscribed to this story! <strong>

**Also, reviews are love :)**


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